


Homage to Catalunya

by stickmarionette



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-21
Updated: 2010-07-21
Packaged: 2017-10-10 17:35:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/102327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stickmarionette/pseuds/stickmarionette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It's been a fair few weeks, and yet he still can't stop doing it – comparing everything, like a tourist, a visitor.  Nothing fits quite right, from the language – echoes of Italian, but he doesn't want to think of those times, not really – to the food and the style of playing.</i>  Thierry Henry struggles with his move to Barcelona, in five segments.</p><p>Written in 2007.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homage to Catalunya

**Author's Note:**

> Each segment is preceded by a quote from an article. Credit is due to the Guardian, the BBC, the Daily Telegraph, and Goal.com. Title with apologies to George Orwell.

**hello and goodbye**

_[There was, in fact, still over an hour to go before Henry appeared, still longer before he would pull on the Blaugrana for the first time and perform on the pitch. And yet through the window you could see them already, a steady stream of supporters in a solid line, thousands making their way into the stadium.]_

There's a different sort of glare cast by the media attention here. More intense in some ways – he's spent the whole day being followed around - and yet less personal. They want to know why he left Arsenal, and why he chose Barca. He says all the right things with a smile, the few sentences of Catalan Cesc had taught him coming out smoothly. They ask about where he's going to play and he gives the standard answer with practised ease. (That's for the coach to decide.) He's as worried as they are, in all honesty, but no one needs to know that just yet.

Photos are taken in front of a giant club badge and he almost feels like a boy again, joining Monaco/Juventus/his beloved Arsenal. (Things have changed, though. For one, the smile is a lot more polished now.)

The press conference is held in a room roughly the size of a West End theatre. Thierry's told cheerfully by the translator that it's named after that night a year ago, and he can't quite suppress a thankfully unnoticed wince.

The explosion of flashbulbs as he holds up the Barcelona shirt is almost as blinding as Joan Laporta's unnaturally wide grin. When Thierry goes to sit down, his chair is suddenly neatly tucked under the desk as if by some supernatural force, and Laporta's hand lands on his shoulder. He flicks a glance at the other man's unnerving grin – are people actually supposed to have that many teeth? – before glancing back into the crowd of cameras, braced for even more flashlights.

(His smile never wavers.)

What seems like an eternity later, Thierry's finally free of the masses of journalists from all over. Standing in the tunnel, with the sound of his name drifting through from the great stadium beyond, he has an insane moment of doubt.

_Breathe._

"I'm told there are 30,000 people waiting out there for you," the translator says quietly, with his impeccable timing.

Another deep breath, and Thierry steps out into the light.

*

He's helping Samuel put training cones out on the ground, skin still crawling from the constant feeling of scrutiny behind his back – _how the hell can they stand it, having open training all the time?_ – when Carles Puyol turns up, and everyone stops so they can crowd around him.

Beside him, Samuel grins, flashing rows of neat white teeth. "Andres said Puyi would come to say hi today."

"Oh, I see."

Samuel frowns at his non-committal tone. "You're not still holding a grudge?"

"No, no. That stuff stays on the pitch, and - "

The man is certainly the fastest moving thing on crutches he's ever seen. (And he's a lot shorter than Thierry remembers.)

Puyol speaks in slow and clear Spanish, smiling through his mop of curls. "Welcome to Barca."

There's a fierce pride in his tone that Thierry recognises with a pang, the shadow of very similar words he once spoke to newcomers in a very different setting.

_Best not to think of that._

"Thank you."

*

Thierry had seen Bojan on TV, a very small kid amongst small kids, playing for the Spanish U17s. Good player, has potential, but he's been in football long enough to know that potential doesn't always mean a whole lot.

After their first game in Scotland, he ruefully revises his opinion.

What was it Cesc had said once -

_"If you're playing for Barcelona as a teenager, then you must be the best."_

There aren't that many kids in the squad – Bojan, the cheeky Giovani, quiet Marc Crosas and Messi, who he's yet to meet – but they're a fairly well turned out bunch, just like –

He sighs.

_Just like the kids we have at Arsenal._

It's been a fair few weeks, and yet he still can't stop doing it – comparing everything, like a tourist, a visitor. Nothing fits quite right, from the language – echoes of Italian, but he doesn't want to think of those times, not really – to the food and the style of playing.

But with time, things will change. Thierry tells the press that he'll adapt. This is a challenge, a match on a grand scale for him to win. And he hates losing.

(It is comforting to have some constants.)

**the city of light**

_[The French international is reminded of the night that the Blaugrana defeated Arsenal in Paris every day as a photo of the victorious team hangs in the dressing room at Camp Nou._

_Now that Henry has switched sides he wants a new photo for the wall, if only to prevent him from taking down the old one and hiding it.]_

There's an entire wall of the dressing room that he refuses to look at. At first, he'd just ignored that one framed picture on the far right and focused on the others, proud, faded reminders of past glories, stretching back to the first: blurry figures in black and white on the far left, wearing that same striped pattern, unmistakable even in shades of grey. But his eyes were always drawn further and further right, and then he'd catch a glimpse of the newest portrait: the same pattern rendered in coloured clarity, many pairs of hands hoisting that large, almost vase-like trophy, and Ronnie, Xavi, Puyol and Deco grinning like mad men in the front row.

*

That night, he lost more than a Champions League final. Or, even if that wasn't strictly true, then at least May 18 of last year was always going to be associated with loss of every kind in his head.

*

He had stormed into the empty dressing room, afterwards, still horribly angry - at the referee, at the opposition, at himself (_how did I miss those two chances, how?_), at everything, and almost shaking at the force of it.

The sight of Bobby sitting with his head bowed, silent and unmoving, stopped him short.

"Bobby. Bobby, I - "

No response, and just as he was about to go up to him, offer some kind of comfort - "I'm fine."

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Bobby stirred at that. Straightened a little, shook his hair out of his eyes and sighed. "For what?"

For a moment, he couldn't make himself say it. Voicing it would just make it real. "…you should have had a better send off."

"That only happens in stories. Or to the very lucky," Bobby said, and Thierry was surprised to hear amusement instead of bitterness in his tone.

Or maybe he shouldn't have been, given the next thing Bobby said.

"Are you staying, then?"

No hesitation. "Yes."

This time, Bobby actually chuckled out loud. "You always did like a happy ending."

**The truth about…**

_["Eto'o and I are close. When I was injured he came to see me in London and that gave me a lift and when he was out earlier this year I came over to visit him._

_"I have known him since he was at Mallorca. As much as the media would like us not to be friends, I am sorry to say that we are," he joked.]_

" - no, it's no bother at all. What did you want to ask?"

Thierry takes a deep breath. "I've talked to other people and heard conflicting things. So what's it really like there in the dressing room?"

Lilian takes a while to reply. When he does, his tone is thoughtful. "It's...complicated."

*

It takes any player a while to settle into the dynamics of a new team. He's done it before, but that seems a long time ago, and he's since spent all his time inside the same comfort zone, letting others get used to him instead of the other way around. So he doesn't expect to understand the way things work at Barca straight away.

(Even so, when Lilian had said 'complicated', he hadn't realized how much.)

Ronnie and Samuel stick with him all through training in the first week, translating and helping him along. He appreciates the effort, but finds the banter between them a little bit unnerving. They tease each other constantly, get incredibly competitive over everything, and he can never tell when they're being serious about it.

(Frankly, he's not sure they know when they're getting serious.)

They try to include him, but the chatter between them - mostly French, for his benefit, but sometimes they slip into rapid-fire Spanish and he can't follow it - is full of references to past jokes, conflicts, games, and at times he can almost feel the snap and crackle of it get tenser and tenser - and then they'd pull back. One of them would glance at the journalists with cameras and notebooks watching their little group avidly, and then there would be silence.

Sometime later, one of them cracks a joke, the other laughs, and all seems to return to normal.

*

Samuel takes him to a small Italian restaurant after training. The prices are obscene, but the food is delicious, and they're left alone. For the first time that day, the feeling of scrutiny is gone, and some of the tension leaves Thierry's body.

Half way through the food, Samuel sets down his folk and just stares at him. "Are you settling in alright?"

"I think so. Haven't quite got the hang of everything yet, but you know how it is."

"Yeah, about that. Ronnie said you looked worried about us two fighting."

"What? Oh, I was just wondering…"

Samuel glances at him sharply. "Don't read the press."

"Do you?"

"Only when I want a laugh," Samuel mutters, looking frustrated. "Listen, Titi, Ronnie and I fight all the time, but we make up all the time too. But those idiots aren't interested in the second part."

"It's not a problem?" he says, trying to keep the scepticism out of his voice.

"Of course not. You know, he can pass to me with his eyes closed. And I can do the same with him. Not everybody can say that," Samuel replies, grinning by the end.

"Okay. I know you said to ignore the press, but - "

"Just ask. I'm not going to bite your head off."

"What about Rijkaard, then?"

Samuel's grin doesn't fade, although one of his eyebrows twitches alarmingly. "Have you had a chat with the boss yet?"

He'd had some conversations here and there, mostly in English. "I've talked to him a bit."

"No, no, that's not it. I mean when he takes one of us aside in training and gets all protective; are you feeling alright, don't read the press, and how's the kids."

Thierry raises an eyebrow. "…can't say I have. Are you guys…?"

"We're fine. Rijkaard's straight forward with everyone, and he gets being a player. That's enough," Samuel says, with absolute conviction.

*

It becomes a moot issue, very quickly, when Samuel goes down injured. At least 3 months, the doctors say.

Thierry has always said that he doesn't feel pressure. (But if he did, it would be weighing him down right now, dogging his every step.)

**the kids are alright**

_[And Thierry Henry asked: "You heard what Cesc said?" I had been wondering if he would bring that up: the interview Cesc Fabregas gave the other week in which it was stated that Arsenal had benefited from Henry's transfer to Barcelona. Less experienced players, according to the burgeoning young Arsenal midfielder (himself a Catalan, plucked by Arsene Wenger from the Barcelona youth ranks), had not found it easy to adjust to the overwhelming influence of the club's principal performer, whose presence had tended to "inhibit" them. Henry knew the remarks had caused quite a stir in England, and declared: "I agreed with them completely."]_

It's one of his first training sessions back in Barcelona after the tour. They've got enough players to play a full training game, at least with the help of some of the boys from the B team. The atmosphere is about equal parts playful and deadly serious. He didn't think it was actually possible, but that seems like the only way to describe a game in which Deco tries two backheel passes in three minutes and runs off to argue with the 'referee' – one of the boss' army of assistants - when Giovani gets tripped by Oleguer in the box immediately afterwards.

Luckily, this seems to be the normal course of events around here. His inquiring look to Rafa is greeted with a shrug and a grin, and the penalty is given for their side.

All smiles once again, Deco strides up and offers the ball to Thierry. He mutters thanks but doesn't reach out to take it, considering before inclining his head at Leo, who had been lurking behind him.

_You can take it, if you want._

The boy's eyes widen almost comically in surprise. He starts to shake his head, in fact, but breaks off when Samuel, who Thierry hadn't even noticed coming over, puts an arm around his shoulder and starts talking animatedly in rapid-fire Spanish, not letting Leo get a single word in edge-wise. Eventually he nods, eyes still trained on the ground, and Samuel grins, giving Thierry the thumbs-up before walking back to join his own team-mates.

Still, Deco has to all but shove the ball into Leo's hands. Thierry's never seen anything like it.

*

Sylvinho's English isn't as good as it was, made halting by years of disuse, but it's still fine for communicating.

"Is Ronnie doing better?"

He frowns, making a set of premature wrinkles appear. "He's working on it. But Titi, you understand, right? It's not just fitness."

"Is there anything we can do?"

"I think he has to take time, you know, sort this out himself." Sylvinho's anxiety transforms into a sort of paternal pride. "But we've still got Leo."

"He's…shy. Is he like that normally?" He sighs. "Am I intimidating him?"

"No, no, it's not you," Sylvinho says, smile turning a little cryptic. "You'll see."

*

Later, they get a penalty against Sevilla. Ronnie's not on the pitch, and neither is Samuel, so after all the backslapping there's a short discussion about who's going to take it.

Leo says, firmly, "I can do it." And then he smiles at the surprised look on Thierry's face. "Titi, you want to…?"

"No, no, that's fine."

"Deco?"

"Of course you can take it, but if you don't score, then it'll be me from now on," Deco says, grinning, and ruffles his hair.

Putting pressure on the kid doesn't seem to be the best idea, and he's tempted to say so, but nobody else seems bothered, least of all Leo.

He places the ball, glances at the keeper, and slots the ball into the net without even looking at it.

The Camp Nou breaks into a chant, one that has quickly become familiar to Thierry this season -

_"Me-ssi, Me-ssi, Me-ssi…"_

\- and he's beginning to understand why.

*

The next day, and he's early (again). Better that then late, he thinks, and settles down to browse the sports newspapers in one of the very nice lounges. Sylvinho wanders in ten minutes later, and Thierry almost laughs out loud at the look of distress on his face upon spotting what he's reading. Then he sits down opposite Thierry on the couches and pokes cautiously at the offending item as if it will grow fangs and bite, so Thierry does laugh.

"Why are you reading that? It's banned in the changing rooms, you know."

He grins, says, "I like the pictures, " voice lowered conspiratorially, and points at a photo of last night, showing about six of the players trying to ruffle Leo's hair at once.

Sylvinho gives a startled laugh. He looks quite pleased, actually, which is a nice change from last few days, with the Ronnie business. "You understand what I mean now, right?"

"Hmm?"

"About Leo."

He grins. "Yeah."

*

He's joined on a bench by Leo during a break in training, back to his usual shy self off the pitch and looking distinctly uncomfortable.

"Titi, can I ask you something?"

He grins, tries to sound reassuring. "Sure."

"I asked Cesc, you know…about what he said," Leo murmurs to the ground, cheeks reddening. "I thought someone had made it up, because he always talked about how much he liked you."

Thierry shrugs. "It was just the press exaggerating things. Anyway, I agreed with what he actually said."

Silence, and then, "…honestly, I was surprised."

"Oh? Why?"

Leo smiles, a little wistfully. "I know Cesc. And - he was never afraid of anything."

_True. But it's also true that…_

"Maybe he respected me too much. I'm always shouting for the ball, you know, even when I'm not in a good position."

Leo blinks. "Oh, that. Actually, Titi, you have to shout at me, or I won't notice."

"What do you mean?"

The boy leans back and stares at the cloudless sky for a moment before responding slowly, his tone distant. "Sometimes, I forget about you guys. The whole world's just me and the ball, like on the street back in Argentina. It doesn't happen much now. More when I was younger. But sometimes…" He shakes his head as if to clear it. "So, you should shout."

_That's…huh._

Thierry's not quite sure what to say. "Are you sure about that?"

He grins widely. "Cesc always said I was too stubborn, and that I have to remember it's a team sport. Now I know what he means, I have to shout, too."

*

Thierry has dinner by himself, with the silence only broken by the excitable commentator on TV (which is playing an Arsenal game he's already watched) and finds that he has forgotten how. He's sure he's lived this way before, but now it just seems all too alien, along with a lot of other things about Barcelona, still, even though he can now understand about eighty percent of what the commentator is babbling about, and knows that the hapless man's mistaken Hleb for Flamini yet again.

So it's a bit of a relief when his cell phone rings.

"Hello?"

"Titi? I haven't interrupted dinner, have I?"

"Cesc?" he glances up at the game – Arsenal have scored – and down at his half-eaten food. "No, you haven't. How are things?"

"Pretty good. And you?"

"Not bad. Just getting used to everything, slowly."

"That's great." Cesc falters for a moment before continuing. "…listen, you know all the stuff the press have been writing about what I said…I didn't mean it that way, I swear. I - "

"No, it's fine. Don't worry about it."

"You sure?"

"You were right," he says, quietly. In the silence that follows, he glances at the TV and can't help chuckling out loud.

Standing unmarked on the left, Cesc is shouting for the ball.

"Titi?"

"Ah, Cesc. I'm glad you're doing so well," he says, amused -

\- and feels a weight leave his shoulders.

**home**

_["I will now become an Arsenal fan and will be looking at every result. I am sure the team will be successful…_

_Arsenal will be in my blood as well as my heart. I will always, always, always remember you guys. I said I was going to be a Gunner for life and I did not lie because when you are a Gunner you will always be a Gunner._

_The club is in my heart and will remain in my heart forever."]_

"I'm going to Spain," he'd said into the receiver, quietly. It felt like a confession.

Bobby's laugh echoed down the line. "Do you remember what you said when I told you that?"

"Bobby, I - "

(He'd wanted to explain, but didn't have the words.)

Bobby sighed. "Don't. I know."

*

Thierry's old enough to at least try and not take things personally, but he's beginning suspect that the referees here just don't like him very much.

_It's not a foul just because I'm taller than the defender, dammit,_ he thinks, dusting himself off after yet another decision goes against him and throwing his hands up in protest.

_If this was back in England -_

He doesn't let himself finish the thought.

*

Conveniently, the boss is one of the few people on the team who doesn't have to strain to sling an arm around his shoulder.

"So, how are you feeling?"

"A lot better, actually. I just need to get used to…everything."

"Settle in, and then it'll all fall into place." Frank inclines his head and just looks at him for a moment, eyes unnervingly placid and unreadable. "Give it time."

"I'm alright, boss. You don't need to worry about it."

Frank smiles. "You know, you can talk to me. Everybody does. You see Samuel, people say he talks too much, but I only worry when he's not talking to me."

He almost stumbles under the force of Frank's hearty backslap. "Also, if you're saying it to me, you're not saying it to the press."

It startles a laugh out of him.

"Thank you, boss."

*

He's missed countless chances lately - well, the damnest thing is that someone will have been counting them, and he's probably going to see the exact number in the papers tomorrow. Right next to how many games he's not scored in, broke down to the exact minute, and all wrapped in a neat little factbox.

(No. He's better than this.)

Thankfully, the phone rings.

"What."

"Titi? Something wrong?"

"Sorry, Lilian. It's...I'm alright."

But the assurance only makes Lilian even more worried. "Have you eaten? Come out with me."

"I've given you enough trouble. Go spend sometime with your family."

Lilian chuckles. "It's no trouble. I did promise to show you that nice restaurant by the beach."

*

The restaurant _is_ really nice, and to his surprise he does feel a lot better after 10 minutes in Lilian's company. Then again, his friend seems to have that effect on a lot of people.

"You know, I read an interview with you yesterday," Lilian says casually, sipping from his glass.

"Did I make a fool of myself again?"

A shake of the head. "It was nice. And you used 'we'. When talking about Arsenal."

"Oh."

Lilian studies his face before going on. "Eventually, Arsenal will stop being 'we' for you. That…might make things easier."

(He could be nothing less than honest to such a friend.)

"I…I think I'm afraid of that, actually."

*

There's a new face in training, a youngish man in the coaching staff's uniform. The boss seems to be having an intense conversation with him, an arm slung casually across his shoulders as usual. He looks kind of familiar.

"Hey, Xavi, is that…?"

"Ah, yeah, Pepe – Pep Guardiola, you know, he coaches the B team?"

"Yeah. I know about Guardiola." Difficult to learn even the sketchiest version of Barcelona's history and not hear about the 'king of Camp Nou', after all. "Played against him a couple of times, actually."

"Football is a mad profession."

"Hmm, pardon?"

"That's one of the first things he ever said to me."

"Not all that encouraging, no?"

Xavi's smile dimmed. "He was best friends with Luis Figo, you know, before Figo…"

"Ah."

"People always liked to write crap about Pepe, and even more when he left the year after Luis did. But who knows what really happened?" Xavi says, tone almost light, but there's something brittle in his eyes. Something that Thierry's willing to bet has nothing to do with whatever happened to Guardiola.

If this were his second season, perhaps he'd say something to dispel whatever memory is gripping Xavi. And he does want to, because he recognises that look, had seen it in his own eyes after Bobby left, but it isn't the place of a new team mate to comment on these things. So he doesn't.

"…I'm sure the fans are happy to see him back at Barca."

Something in his tone makes Xavi blink, the faraway look leaving his eyes. "Anyway, how are you settling in? Things still weird? Your Spanish is improving really fast. Lilian has been checking up on you, right?"

"Yeah, he's been great."

Xavi smiles. "I know you guys are friends, and we - mostly Puyi, Sylvinho, Lilian and I - always like to make sure that the new guys are doing alright anyway. Especially with the way the media have been with you."

"I'm alright," he says like a mantra, wishing he could believe it.

Xavi gives him a concerned look, before sneaking a glance at the huddle of coaching staff. "Actually, you should go talk to Pep. Say hello. He's a useful person to know around here."

"I don't want to be a bother."

"He's a big fan of you, so I'm doing him a favour. Go on," Xavi grins, slowing to a halt. "Hey, Pepe!"

A bit of frantic arm waving gets the man's attention and he begins to jog over.

"Listen to him. It'll help."

Thierry turns around, startled, but Xavi's already running to help out the B teamers lay out training cones.

*

Pep Guardiola has very deep set eyes and a firm handshake. He also speaks fluent Italian, and responds to Thierry's look of surprise with a smile, although it's immediately apparent that he's much more reserved than Xavi.

"I played in Italy after leaving Barca."

"Ah, I see. It's good to see you." They had met before, but only on the pitch, and that was 7 years ago. (In playing years, almost half a lifetime.)

"And you. How is Barcelona treating you?"

The reassuring reply comes automatically to him by now. "Everything's been great."

Something flickered in Guardiola's still eyes at his reply. "But? It's a bit strange, isn't it?"

"…yeah."

"Not all of us can be Paolo Maldini. Some of us become ghosts hanging over the stadium and then we have to leave home."

Thierry doesn't want to think about the implications of Guardiola's bittersweet tone. _How long since he left? And it still hurts?_

"Does it ever stop?"

"In a way. It will take time, but after a while…After a while, you can put it to the back of your mind."

Guardiola smiles and pats his shoulder. "And everything new doesn't have to be worse."

*

Thierry watches the North London derby live. He yells and throws his arms up at the TV when Spurs go one up, and feels as anxious as if he's still out there playing instead of sitting on a comfortable sofa in his apartment in a different country.

When Cesc scores, he can't help jumping up out of said sofa, grinning and yelling, as if he were back in London, celebrating with the team.

*

He gives a post-match interview in Spanish. When he finally gets home, turns on the TV, and sees himself there, speaking with confidence, he has the now familiar moment of disconnect, that jarring realization that the unruffled looking guy there is the same one who was nervously practising those few platitudes in his head as he showered after the game.

The press reports next day praise his nearly perfect grammar. A part of him wants to roll his eyes, but the rest is kind of pleased.

*

All the midfielders keep trying slide-rule passes for him to run onto, to make him more comfortable on the pitch, and he's torn between feeling guilty for making them change their passing style and being grateful.

It doesn't work at all at first, but when it does -

Andres slips him the perfect pass, he runs onto the ball, and some things never change. Some things the body never forgets. And Thierry knows how to score goals.

A great goal, a goal just like the old Henry, they'll say in the press tomorrow. Right now, the Camp Nou is erupting into cheers and applause, and his team mates are piling in with huge grins on their faces.

Even as he touches the club crest, there's something strange, a sense of not-quite-right, but -

_"Hen-ry, Hen-ry, Hen-ry…"_

\- as his name echoes around this great bowl of a stadium, _his home ground_, he thinks it might be alright.

  
_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> I usually list the facts I got from various articles at the end, but there's just too many this time. Feel free to ask me if you're curious whether I made something up. And thank you for reading.


End file.
